A Flight Home

By Richard F Jones

Jenny Millington has recently started work for an international publishing house. Casper Watkins, one of their famous authors has gone missing in mysterious circumstances. Under pressure to improve their sales figures Jenny sets out to find the missing author.

The trail she follows leads her to a world of murder, drugs and illegitimacy.

Will she find Casper? Will she unmask the murderer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard F Jones
• Release date: Sep 20, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452398617

Richard F Jones

I was born in Wales, but have lived in Spain, Majorca, the western highlands of Scotland and the Wye Valley.My books are mostly set in the places where I have had homes. These include ten published paperbacks and eleven e-books.I append below a review from Mr Derek J Edwards of my novel, 'Time on their Hands'.'I could not put this book down. It was full of interesting characters, with twists and turns in every chapter. I will certainly be looking for other novels by Richard F Jones. 'You can check Amazon Kindle for the authenticity of the review.

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A

FLIGHT HOME

BY

RICHARD F JONES

To my dear wife Meg, Myrnie Allan, Janet Howells and our friends Ken and Dee Ivison who helped with this book.

©2010 Richard F Jones. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book maybe reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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PROLOGUE

'There isn’t anymore. I’ve given you more than I dare already,' the man said lifting his head off the pillow.

'You were told that this was your last warning,' Raul replied. 'Either you write the cheque now or that’s it. Those are my instructions.'

'Raul, he’s disappeared. If I could only make contact there wouldn’t be a problem, but I have to speak to him first.'

'That’s not good enough my friend,' Raul said. 'It’s today or finito. You know the score.'

'I know, I know,' the man said getting out of the bed. 'Raul I beg of you, just a few more days.'

The man, who was naked, except for a blue and white polka dot cravat, began to walk out of the bedroom. He was halfway to the door, then turned around.

'It’s no good. I refuse to do it. You'll have to wait.'

Raul knew then what he had to do. It was his living, his contract. If he didn’t comply, they’d do the same to him.

The man was now moving towards the bathroom. Raul got out of the bed and followed, slipping his large hands over the man’s shoulders, just as he'd done so many times before, caressing with a lover’s affection. He slid them around the man’s neck and fingered the cravat.

'Goodbye my sweet friend,' Raul said. 'You've been good to me.'

Slowly, and tenderly at first, he pulled the two ends of the cravat in opposite directions. Then tighter and tighter, with the strength of his forearms, until the man’s eyes bulged. The knot tightened, the skin became taut, their naked bodies were touching, close and warm as they had been in bed. The man struggled, but his tiny frame was no match for Raul’s muscular strength.

'No Raul,' the man gasped, choking.

Desperately he tried to free himself. He hooked his leg behind Raul’s and twisted. They tumbled. As they fell Raul spotted the bronze figurine. His hand grabbed out for it and as they hit the ground he violently smashed it into the side of the man’s head.

CHAPTER

Jenny Millington was sitting in her new solo flat in Acton, West London, flipping through the pages on her laptop.

Three hectic months had elapsed since taking up her post as Assistant Editor in the fiction department of Knott and Pearson, worldwide publishers, at their London office off Ealing Broadway. Aged twenty-six with an honours degree in English at Cambridge, publishing had seemed like a suitable career. Taking a year off to backpack through Europe with a friend helped formulate the decision. Alone in her small room, with fresh paint still permeating the air, she was wondering if she'd made the right choice.

That afternoon a three hour meeting with her editor, Imogen Quaith and the Financial Director, Frank Swan, had compounded the doubts. Swan, a short, dark, dapper little man with a pencil slim moustache, possessed a one track philosophy on profit margins. His summary was succinct; 'Your sales figures are just not good enough,' he stated. It was the early nineties and the end of the net book agreement had torn publishing in half.

'The house will be unable to carry its overheads much longer on the current turnover,' he continued to lecture. 'If things don’t improve budgets will have to be slashed and redundancies considered.'

At home, afterwards, a headache meant relaxation was out of the question. So she made some toast, brewed a large pot of tea, kicked off the high heels that had pinched like hell all day and switched on the laptop.

To begin with her job had been fascinating and fun. Dealing with new authors was stimulating, their work enlightening, but with the finance people she felt out of her depth. Talking about budgets and job losses was scary. The hundred per cent mortgage on the flat was already straining her own domestic budget to its absolute limit.

Keying back over the sales figures for the last two years she could see Swan was right. She used to think most of their titles as nice little earners, but they'd all definitely taken a nosedive. Going back to the menu, she then went over it author by author, the answer was staring at her in the face. Two years ago 'Flame in the Sky' was at its peak. Casper Watkins’ political novel had been mammoth.

While guiding the mouse to his file she couldn’t recall his face, they hadn’t met. Her eyes widened when the file came on screen. His birthplace, Dyserth, North Wales was just a few miles down the road from her home in nearby Ruthin. The three books before 'Flame in the Sky' sold reasonably well, but 'Sky' hit the jackpot all over the world. The royalties were immense. It was still selling, but there had been nothing since. She noticed three years had passed since he wrote it; 'What’s the matter with these people back at the office,' she thought. To her, the answer to their problems seemed simple; Watkins needed coaxing back into life.

Satisfied she could face the following day, she folded up the laptop. In the fridge was a bottle of dry Martini, she added some ice, a slice of lemon, and a good measure of gin, then decided to ring home. Her mother answered.

'Jennifer my dear, how lovely to hear from you. Your father and I do wish you would ring more often.'

‘Well I’m ringing now. Are you both well?’

‘Your father’s got his aches but we’re making do. You know how he is.’

‘Is he there mum? I just want to ask him something.’

Arthur Millington had been the headmaster at the local infants school. At some time during the fifties and sixties every child in the district had passed through his tutorship.

'You always ring when there’s football on,' he said when he came to the phone.

'Hi Dad. I won’t keep you long. Dad, did you teach a John Casper Watkins? He’s a writer now and lives in London.'

'Oh Jenny there have been so many. John Casper Watkins?' she could almost hear him thinking. 'Yes, yes, they lived at Gwernaffield. Bright lad. There had been something funny in the family during the war. They tried to keep it quiet but you know what it’s like around here. He went on to University I think. Why do you ask?'

‘It’s nothing important. He’s one of our authors. You can go back to your football now. I may be up at the weekend. Tell me anything you remember then. Love you both.'

* * * * *

Jenny was slightly in awe of her Editor, Imogen Quaith. The woman once worked for the Express and, according to Imogen, she knew all the authors going back over twenty years, some intimately. But this idea had been burning in Jenny’s brain all night and so it was with just a little trepidation that she knocked on her office door next morning.

'Oh, hi Jenny. Come in,' Imogen said. 'Hope you’re not too shell shocked after yesterday,' she snorted. 'Frank Swan can be a bit of a bastard, but he’s only doing his job.'

'The pocket battleship' was how some of the lads in the office referred to Imogen. Short and stocky with close cropped red hair, she always managed a well tailored appearance. A lilac two piece suit with a long-line structured jacket, over a mandarin blouse was that days offering. Rings accompanied most of her stubby fingers. She smoked constantly and possessed a fearsome temper. Jenny smiled and tried to compose herself.

'Well that’s what I wanted to see you about,' she said.

Imogen had been reading a document. Slowly she lifted her eyes, removed her glasses and sighed, her standard response to being interrupted. Jenny continued.

'To see if we could improve things I spent last night looking through the laptop files.'

'My God, it’s nice to know we have someone conscientious here for a change,' Imogen replied with a heavy hint of sarcasm. 'Well go on, what did the magic screen reveal?'

Jenny coughed to clear her throat.

'What’s happened to Casper Watkins?' she asked. 'Surely a new book from him would revitalise our figures?'

Imogen set her glasses down amongst the clutter on the desk, took a cigarette from a packet in her handbag, inserted it into a long brown cigarette holder, before easing back in her chair.

'Well that’s a very good question,' she said while lighting the cigarette. 'That man has just disappeared off the face of this earth. Even the chairman, Lord Rathenberg, has been involved. He’s given his son, Anthony, the task of finding him. Watkins could name his own advance, but as far as I am aware we’ve had no luck.'

'Could he be dead?' Jenny asked.

'Not according to his agent. But he doesn’t say much that’s helpful.'

'I have an idea,' Jenny said, with a degree of uncertainty.

Imogen looked at her with questioning eyes and took a long draw on the cigarette.

'My dear Jenny, for the past three months Anthony Rathenberg has employed a firm of private detectives to try and trace him. Last month we stopped paying his royalties. How do you think you could succeed when all that’s failed?'

Jenny coughed nervously.

'Well I wasn’t going to tell you this, but before coming to see you I sneaked into publicity. I know I am not supposed to, but I’ve had a look at his file.' A frown had formed on Imogen’s face. Jenny kept going before she was shot down.

'It’s all in a good cause, isn’t it,' Jenny said quickly. 'You see when I first looked at the figures I thought we were dealing with some swish London author. I mean there’s the posh apartment in Ebury Terrace, the well publicised affair with Caroline Di Angello. The trips to New York and Hollywood. The photographs with her in the Bahamas. It all seemed to point to a man who enjoyed the glamorous Bohemian life.' Jenny paused for breath, then added a smile to quell Imogen’s frown.

'Go on,' Imogen said and sucked on her cigarette.

'Well, then I spotted something that made me think again. You see Imogen, he’s Welsh, like me.'

Imogen’s frown was getting deeper.

'He was born in Dyserth. His mother’s home is Gwernaffield, that’s about ten miles down the road from where I lived.'

'So what!!'

'Imogen, if a man from around there wanted to go to ground he wouldn’t do it in any of the places your detectives may have looked. I know that part of the world. Deep down he’s a country boy and just like a fox, he'd know how to hide from the pack.'

'But we’ve checked around his mother’s home, he’s not there.'

'No! That would be too simple. But there may be a clue there. The local people wouldn’t open up to a London firm of detectives.' Jenny began waving her arms in concert with her words. 'You see the Welsh aren’t all that impressed by glamour and fame. If it comes their way they'll take it, but it's not that important.'

Imogen looked bewildered.

'Well, what have you got in mind?' she said knocking the ash off her cigarette. 'I can’t afford to let you have time off to go gadding about Wales, looking for this man. We’ve got books to publish here, not to mention Frank Swan breathing down our necks.'

'I wouldn’t expect that but I could spend my weekends on it. I have to go up there to see my family. If you would just give me clearance to enquire on the firm’s behalf, that’s all I am asking.'

'Jenny I don’t know. I’ll have to speak to Anthony Rathenberg. It's his responsibility. This could be dangerous. Casper may be in all sorts of trouble we don’t know about.'

'I’ve hitchhiked through Turkey,' Jenny said. 'North Wales wouldn’t be as dangerous as that.'

'Well you’ll have to leave it with me,' Imogen retorted curtly. She stubbed out her cigarette and replaced her glasses. 'Now we really must get on with publishing some books.'

Later in the day Imogen buzzed through on the internal phone, wanting to see her. Jenny was in the middle of proof checking. She dashed across the office.

'Oh Jenny there you are,' Imogen said. 'I don’t think you’ve met Anthony Rathenberg?'

Jenny froze in the doorway. Standing alongside Imogen’s desk was the most delicious looking fair haired man. Very tall, probably in his late thirties, with flecks of grey at the temples, all she could do was stare.

'This is Jenny Millington, who I was telling you about,' Imogen continued.

'How very pleasant to make your acquaintance Miss Millington,' Rathenberg said. The words rolled effortlessly off his tongue. 'Imogen’s been telling me about your interest in our truant author. How do you feel you can help?'

Having just finished a biscuit she prayed there weren’t crumbs left showing. When she looked up, the hue of his blue eyes, the cut of his sharp jaw line, his whole demeanour, caused her words to stumble.

'Well, er. I just feel that I have er, a closer knowledge of the area he was brought up in, a-an-and the character of the people from around there,' she stuttered. Her every word sounded inept, her every syllable inadequate. She coughed to cover her embarrassment and tried once more, this time without looking at Anthony Rathenberg.

'What I am trying to say, is that you have only known this man as a successful author on the London scene. But for the early part of his life he lived in a close knit agricultural community. If he’s really under pressure his mind will relocate in those terms. If he doesn’t want to be found, a London private eye isn’t going to know where to look.' She paused and glanced up. They were both staring at her. 'What I’d like to do is to go back to his roots, and try and piece together the reasons for his disappearance.'

Anthony Rathenberg was smiling. There was a moment, just for a few seconds, when Jenny regretted ever having mentioned the subject. Standing in front of them both, in Imogen’s office, she felt silly, like a schoolgirl up before the headmaster.

'Perhaps it might be best if you talk to his agent first,' Rathenberg said. 'Maybe Imogen can arrange for you to see Henson Littlewood. With your pretty face he may reveal something he hasn’t told us. You will have to be careful though, he and Casper are very close.'

Jenny still felt embarrassed.

'If you come up with anything positive perhaps you can let me know,' Rathenberg continued. 'But I don’t want you wasting too much of the firm’s time on this. If Casper doesn’t want to write books there are plenty of people who do.'

When he left the room Jenny had to lean on the edge of Imogen’s desk. Her knees had begun to tremble.

'OK, let’s see what you can come up with,' Imogen said. 'But you heard Anthony. I don’t want you wasting time on this.'

'Imogen I do think you are a rat.' Imogen looked as though she was about to cut loose. 'For not warning me about our dishy Managing Director, I mean.' Jenny added quickly.

Imogen smiled.

'Don’t get any big ideas. He’s spoken for and she’s very wealthy. Just be careful Jenny.'

That evening after eating, Jenny settled on her divan. Imogen had authorised for her to borrow Casper’s file. She kicked off her sneakers, stretched out her legs and noticed her toenails needed painting.

There was a lot to digest. Many disputes, mainly about royalties. Some of the more virulent arguments centred on the firm’s attempts to alter his text. It all pointed to a fiery Welsh temperament, just what she’d expected.

His biographical notes indicated a fairly mediocre academic life. Denbigh grammar school, then an arts degree at Liverpool University. Afterwards he became a hack reporter. Firstly for the Rhyl Journal and later on for the Liverpool Evening Post. He was in his early thirties before he produced his first novel. A descriptive tale about life in the classy areas of the Wirral. It sold moderately well but certainly didn’t place him amongst the best sellers. Two successful political thrillers followed. They established his reputation. Then he moved to London to team up with his long standing friend and agent Henson Littlewood. It seems they were at University together.

According to the office wags there was some doubt about Henson’s sexual persuasion but there could be no confusion over Casper’s. Press cuttings revealed a string of well known female liaisons. The synopsis of his first novel epitomised the lurid life of a journalist. She made a note of his titles and would start reading them next day.

Caroline Di Angello came on the scene when he was writing 'A Flame in the Sky'. One of the faces of the early nineties, she found fame as a television actress with a raunchy part in a 'soap'. That led to films, Hollywood and two major box office extravaganzas. Their well documented relationship lasted about three years. For a time she moved into his Ebury Terrace apartment, then their relationship floundered.

A group of publicity photographs fell out of the file. Some of Casper by himself and a couple with Caroline Di Angello the house had used to launch 'Sky'. Together they made a glamorous couple. Caroline’s curly blonde hair, high cheekbones and sylph like figure regularly enlivened the tabloid pages on many a dull news day. Casper’s features were more rugged. Tall, dark haired and muscular. Jenny wouldn’t really call him handsome, manly and forceful was a description that came into her head. It was very late when she put the file down. She